(Post)
modern human hipster
its
traumatic stress disorder
the tal service
office anarchism
9/11 rehab
dated cheques
secret secondary surrealist sex
cereal rock
apocalyptic
nasal drip
workout snack war script
feminist foods man
feminist foods
breakup
postmodern production punk-
partum depression
gender graduation construction
abstract canada
colonial card consumption
contemporary destruction
(Post)
7 words
one last madness
bittersweet bound-less
pop more everything
is everything
less self
promotional floating
awkwardly in the doorway
glorious nonsense
but not too clever
please keep the fizz
happiness machines
feed me happiness machines
let them flood, mouth to sole.
maladjusted remedy
and I will softly hum.
spoon feed me the words
whip off my chin
watch the alphagetti up-chuck
and poor pronunciation
spill through the floor
drip the sound in my eye
rub out the dust
lick away the white noise
pull the lashes one by one
no more songs of crocodile tears
’cause we hate happy endings
lets eat off our fingers and
embrace the paradox
The tricycle
There was a pink tricycle,
in the middle of a short street,
on it a little girl,
only six.
There was a feeling,
a pang inside her chest,
caused her to rush home
alert her siblings
call for her dad
they arrived at the garage
three small figures huddled
in a lit doorway
looking in to the darkness
she reached out and touched
the awful weight
the sickening swing.
Damages
What did I expect.
Playing with tangled-
mass of corroded wire.
Remember peacock feather earrings,
skin secrets,
wrestling till it hurt;
protectively naive.
Poor choices can
leave one in fetal position,
an endless bath cycle
clutching ceramic comfort;
insta-womb.
Scraped out with a silver spoon,
sanded packed in limbs.
Now disintegrate into salt film
tinged jade.
Dissolve into virtual sex crimes,
float amongst 1s and 0s.
Paint on thicker skin,
reconstruct the hymen amide
muddled mindfuck.
Become wise, impenetrable,
pickled and rusted.
I am your shame,
hardened salt woman.
A bitter taste
spit me out
spat me out
My fingers are orange
and it doesn’t hurt.
I expect nothing.
muse
I am the girl who has done little wrong
(unless you count the hearts).
I perch in the most impossible of places;
on pedestals and laps,
my mouth full of sweet detachment,
brushing against cheeks and cocks,
tender for today
My limbs cause jealousy
the gap between my thighs
is carefully observed
the graceful flop
as I twirl and fall into the sunset
I am the empty void,
a husk of dreams and expectations
my cheeks are paint splattered
my fingers smudged
but I cannot create
cannot touch the brush
I am bursting with war-winks,
conflict-kisses.
The alphabet is tattooed on my toes
and I dance the words
I want nothing more than everything
Disposable Girls
Tempting tempting,
twirling fingers,
through platinum hair.
Tissue hearts,
and plastic smiles,
collect them all.
Feed them,
candy-coated lies,
they will swallow,
then scream to be used,
but only slightly,
sweet, selfish.
Prance of the Drone
We are clothed in monotonous
fluff jackets of saffron and onyx,
for bustling around,
hexagonal wax cells.
We indulge the Empress,
nourish her writhing offspring,
majestic salve.
More for the successor,
(We were not selected)
Oh the affairs of
the Nest.
We are the hoarders
of the precious fluid,
sweetening your tea.
We step the crossways.
This is the same as this poem, only different:
http://iamnotamorningperson.wordpress.com/2009/03/05/the-dance-of-the-honey-bee/
